


For The Love Of Laurette

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But It's Hella Implied, Crack, Inside jokes, Rated For Violence, Totally Personal, cheer up fic, sorry no smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saving puppies, killing annoying things, the Sebby business</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Love Of Laurette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/gifts).



> This whole thing is completely crack to help cheer up a friend.

 

                                                              

Sebastian Moran may have had no remorse but he had a fucking heart. Too much, in fact. His heart is what got him dishonourably discharged, tried for a traitor. The way those people blustered and blew themselves redfaced and hoarse in court, he thought they'd bring back beheading just for him. He probably shouldn't have laughed but that was funny shit. Besides, he met his saviour/bane then, garnered freedom enough to disappear when it came out that the judge favoured under-aged company. Moran laughed some more whilst gutting the fucker in his own house. Gave Jim his cock and bollocks for Valentine's Day. That was an epic shag.

 

He couldn't be distracted with sweet memories  just now, however. Ice mint eyes scanned the crowd and cross-referenced the temporarily memorized information he'd downloaded onto the stolen laptop using the stolen internet connection. Not that he actually needed any of it. He knew a waste of breath when he saw one, someone who does nothing but eat, sleep, shit, fuck, then whine about other people not contributing to society. Not worth the price of the bullet he was going to take. 

 

But it was a job. Also he admired the fuck out of her for wanting to watch.

 

It helped that she lived in the middle of nowhere and offered him a place in which he could lay low. Getting in and out without being spotted by anyone who would say anything was almost never a problem and, way out where she made her home, he could have done it drunk, naked, shouting, and shooting off a couple of his sidearms and no one would bat an eye. Still might, if her cheeky grin and flashing dark eyes were anything to go by. He smiled what she'd called his "shark grin" and let himself remember his response, the one about how sharks devour flesh and even those who survived the attacks carried some mark for a long time, if not the rest of their lives. He then had to will away his erection as he needed all his blood in his brain for now. These jersey shorts didn't conceal much, though appreciative looks he received from some who thought his weapon was, well, his  _weapon_  amused him to no end. The advantage of a broad chest and narrow hips was the way cheap blue tee shirts clung to the top then sort of hung about the waist, concealing the strappy little holster.

 

  
_This is my rifle, this is my gun. One is for fighting, one is for fun_.

 

His mind chanted this of its own free will as he adjusted his headphones and sunglasses. He stopped to "check his trainer laces", finding her immediately on the bench as she spoon fed her toddler ice cream. It was unusually warm for this time of year in this area of the country, but all it did was give him a clearer view of everything by the light of the sun. In a professional manor, her own roaming eyes fell on him, halting only long enough to elicit a wink over the rims of his shades before they moved on to the others out enjoying the day. 

 

As she'd said, the prick was predictable, showing up exactly where she said he would. His tee shirt declared Nickleback the greatest band on earth. If that was the truth he was moving to the moon as soon as possible. He finished tying his shoe and jogged in his direction. Two inches shorter, hair darker than his own, thinner than that Sherlock Holmes prat Jim was always going on about. The guy was waving around a cigarette and complaining to some other bastard about his life, how hard he'd had it, what a bitch his ex was. Funny. That was one of the things Moran liked about her.

 

He literally banged into him, making it look like an accidental bumping, angling the gun so the two rounds stayed in the body and pierced the heart from below. The movies always got it wrong. A silencer didn't make the muted "pew pew" sounds they depicted. Rather, they reduced a cannon noise to a firecracker one. The panic was what he was counting on and, on cue, people saw a bloody man drop after a loud  _bang_  and began to run screaming  and ducking. Sebastian ran past him after it was done to drop the weapon into the open black backpack at her feet as she clutched her child to her. He then looked back, false surprise evident on his face and returned to the dropped body to perform CPR. It would explain the blood on his clothes.

 

A few watched him and waited for EMTs to arrive. He molded his face into a soothing expression as he held her tightly to him and murmured into her hair that it was done. The toddler was sniffing, calming from his shock brought about by the unexpected loud sound and ensuing mayhem. He released her to walk right up to the cops, explain what he'd "seen". He mentioned(in a semblance of a Canadian accent)being a former military sniper so he knew a little about trajectory and such. He then gave them contact information with a plea that he be able to take his girl and kid home as they were obviously really upset about the day's events.

 

He ferried them out of the area then went to the rendez-vous point, a seedy motel where he cleaned up, changed, then picked up the cash portion of money he'd requested after meeting her before flicking his cigarette onto the hotplate filled with what would be an untraceable accelerant and walking away from the place as it burned. 

 

Until he heard the squeaks.

 

They were almost meows and so he thought there was a bunch of stray kittens stuck somewhere in the fire. The motel's owner/operator, a greasy little fuck with stringy dishwater blond hair and(probably)a tiny cock, had run out of the front office at this point, ranting. Sebastian was already dirty again, pushing himself under the raised porch that ran the length of the units, finding the taller section filled with little cages. He'd heard the full grown dogs barking earlier but chalked it up to the neighbourhood.  _This_  was...

 

There was only one little one left, the others long lost to the smoke and heat. He tugged the puppy out into the clean air and could only open the rest of the cages, dragging out ones in which he saw any sign of life. He watched the first one intently for a moment as it struggled to breathe. As the little one's breath evened out, he scanned the meager crowd of junkies and other ne'er-do-wells, choosing a girl way too young to be whore but a whore nevertheless, to look after the puppy for a moment. A man approached him, asking him what the fuck he thought he was doing and ended up choking on his words along with the blood that flooded his throat from a flick of a wickedly sharp blade that had appeared in Sebastian's deft right hand. He didn't even watch the body fall, nor look at what he was doing.

 

He grabbed the corrupt little shit who reigned over this place by the neck, slamming him to the ground on his back, pressing the very tip of the blade against his beady eye.

 

"See that girl over there with the pup?" Sebastian roughly yanked the mans head to the side.

 

"Yeah!" the man sobbed. "Yeah yeah I see her! I see her! Pleaaase!" Moran did so hate the weepers. It meant they had to be extra sadistic to make up for their... shortcomings.

 

"You'll give half the insurance money you get from this shithole to her."

 

"Y-Yeah! Yeah no problem. Poor tyke!" 

 

"You better not be lying." He kept his voice calm, dangerous and filled with a thousand promises of a thousand ways of inflicting pain.

 

"I-I swear!" he panted. "I'll do whatever you want. Whatever you want!" 

 

"I'll know if you don't." Chester Jones. Male. Fourty-three years of age. Two ex-wives and one kid in the US. A daughter he never gets to see. He'd keep his promise. But Sebastian Moran had a reputation to uphold. He first just stared at him until there was a sudden understated smell of urine before exerting the correct amount of pressure to extract his left eye without damaging everything else. "You never saw me. Or else I'll come back and make sure you don't see anything else, are we clear?" The man was shrieking about his eye. What a fucking baby. He slammed the head he had complete control of back on the tarmac once then again. "Are. We. Clear?"

 

" _YES_! Yes! Please! Please!" This was not the sort of begging he enjoyed hearing, already looking forward to arriving at the little house in the middle of nowhere. He was running late. She'd worry something went wrong. He texted her to that effect using the burner phone then proceeded to raid a near by bolt hole. A perfectly tailored charcoal suit complete with pewter tie wouldn't exactly be under the radar but again, where he was headed it wouldn't matter. He left the puppy, a boy by the looks of things in the niche that was spacious enough for a little one and made sure there was enough air before taking to a pet store to purchase amenities.

 

He paid a street walker a grand to accompany him into a nearby rent by the hour establishment so that he could clean and feed the infant animal, which, when washed revealed characteristics of several different breeds that would, if he was properly cared for, combine to result in "Fucking Huge".

 

He got another cab to a car dealership, paid cash for an SUV and showed up at his little sanctuary with the puppy in one hand and a sack full of liquor in the other.

 

"I figure we'll call him 'Backdraft', seeing as how I rescued him from a fire," he informed her after letting her eyes nearly burn the clothes off of him. She crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow at him, keeping him at the door a bit longer.

 

"We're not naming him 'Backdraft'." 

 

"I'll wrestle you for it," he offered, sincerity painting his features, but not quite reaching his eyes.

 

"You'll lose," she declared lightly.

 

"I'm counting on it," he smirked, entering the house.

 

                                     

                                                           


End file.
